Warhammer Short Story: To Stumble on the Plains
by Mojo1586
Summary: 'Every Worthy Thing is Difficult' - Jagathai Khan, Primarch of the Vth Legion. A young tribesman of the Talskar prepares himself for the journey ahead, suffering in pursuit of ascension. A White Scars Short Story.


_**(Disclaimer: I don't claim to own Warhammer 40k, Space Marines, or any such thing. Those strictly fall under the purview of Games Workshop and all their affiliates. This is just a passion project.)**_

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**\- To Stumble on the Plains**** -**

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**_"Every worthy thing is difficult."_**

_\- Attributed to the Primarch Jagathai Khan of the Vth Legion 'White Scars'_

* * *

**Imperial Feudal World - Mundus Planus (Adm: Chogoris)**

**Yasan Sector, ****Segmentum Ultima**

**-I-**

Before, this Neophyte had believed he'd understood the nature of pain...

Having taken wounds in battle, conflicts such as that which has seen him chosen for the possibility of ascension should have prepared him. Suffering the stark privation of long nights spent with an empty belly upon the burnt ashen surface of a plasma scarred _Altak _and later in the mountains of _Khum Karta._ Their towering white peaks still bearing the ignoble injury of orbital bombardment. Enduring the early trials of skill and mettle of carving knives set forth to prove himself a worthy Successor in the eyes of his Masters.

So many tests, so many hurts...such importance placed and bandied.

Even more so now with whispered portents of the _Zadyin Arga _drifting about the tiered halls of Quan Zhou, forewarning his Masters of the Avenging Son's return even before he had arrived garbed in fire and metal to safeguard their world. Tearing down the depredations of Corsairs daubed in the blood of foe and innocent alike slain at their cruel behest.

Bringing with him an army, no...not an army but a Crusade with which the Lord of Ultramar might steal back the blighted stars, leaving in his wake knowledge fit to raise a new breed of Star Hunter spun forth across the heavens.

A breed this Neophyte was soon to join, should he survive this final trial. And he _would _survive, his time had finally come. Of that he would have been certain, if but for the pain.

This had been before, when the Neophyte had thought the agony of the flesh known to him...and by the Emperor and the Great Khan he'd been shown his error. An experience in agony such that even memories of his own name were fluid in the marshes of the mind, reduced to nothing in the face of sheer physical and chemical torment.

Liquid fire much like that which must plague the highest reaches coursed, thick and clotted, through raw veins violently altered by past surgical alchemies. Distilled as they were through philters and whirring devices of eclectic design, the purposes of which only barely grasped by those that claimed to maintain them. Let alone a boy-child hoping to attain the nigh divine...

Musculature tempered well and truly beyond the metallurgy of even those finest mortal sword smiths beholden to Tribe's warriors lay sheathed at sides bound in plasteel shackles, buckling in time with even the slightest convulsions of their bound captive. Limbs stitched and sutured to a point beyond abuse, bulging thick in places where the Steel Within had yet to take hold along straining sinew heavy with congealing lactic acids.

Awareness which had only just begun to adjust to newfound limits cried out in protest at the baleful glare of lumens adorning the ceiling of the Apothecarion, even dimmed as they were. Nostrils tingling with the acrid reek of antiseptic that clung to every surface, eardrums reverberating with steady thrum of motive force that drove monitoring devices to chime so incessantly again and again and again.

Its beats so discordant that even the sentinel of the _Lyman's Ear _proved a poor balm in this. What faculties the Neophyte founf he still possessed swimming as though drowned in fermented _kuzi, _thick and cloying with a lingering bitter tang.

Worse of all were the changes he could in fact feel taking place. Nominally dubbed the 'Primaris Alpha Phase' of implantation treatments by word of the _Emchi _overseeing his ascension, his attempt as it were. A process marked out by steady tearing of tendons, ligaments, and arteries distended along with those fleshy modules of pulsing meat they struggled valiantly to sustain.

All the while coupled with the gravel crack of bone fracturing and re-knitting to fit an expanding frame laid low. Each new chord to the accompaniment of his personal agonies hoping to match the fluttering tempo of arrhythmic hearts. Natural evolution abruptly waylaid by foreign hands and potent secrets in nigh every conceivable manner. Some passed down along the course millennia, others desperately scraped from the heavens before the galaxy had been rent asunder in the wake of the Great Rift and reinforced with the coming of a Primarch.

This 'Cicatrix Maledictum' as it was named by those spoiled _sul tal_ from beyond. Those cast offs left in the wake of this new Princeling of the Imperium's wars.

Missionaries, Administatum Clerks, Starfarers, and Planetary Nobility...all who'd possessed the means to flee having done so. Sailing through the heavens to meet Chogoris' feudal embrace, all doing so in bleating terror. Seeking refuge like children fleeing from shifting shadows flitting beyond the fire pits. Wide eyed and trembling in their ostentatious finery ill deserved, expecting the huntsmen of the Great Khan to bear answer for the horrors that now beset the Imperium.

Dimly, he recalled growing to detest their fear as matter of course. Such an emotion he could only remember in the vaguest sense as the flesh alchemy of the Chapter had been worked steadily across both body and temperament. A thing even in his earlier life he had known if only with the barest familiarity, he was sure of that unlike so much else,

Felt yes, once. Yet so distant now as to be an ember in the coals of his hearts.

Utterly unlike these pompous wailing dregs and their own meager terrors for trappings of wealth and livelihood. So pathetically blatant that he could detect its sour odor from the training yards as they passed even through their pall of biting perfumes and sour effluents. Hearing whispers of dissent and dismay, cries that would be heeded if disdained by those of the Chapter pumping in weak hearts...

Oh to be human...a sensation he would soon truly be beyond but for the pain of transition. Even transhuman degrees of endurance losing hold, giving way to the momentary relief of recollection.

Once he had been human, once...

* * *

**-II-**

...Once, he had been named Nergui of the Talskar. A son of those who counted themselves first to ride in the wake of the Great Khan's vast host in ages past. His people from the first.

And he had known pain, this he knew with intimate certainty.

For all that Chogoris could be counted a paradise by distant unassuming observers, a life eked out upon the planet's vast oceans of grassland was hardly one devoid of hardship.

A fact doubly all too apparent upon the barren wind-blown steppes known to all tribes as the 'Empty Quarter'. That desolate expanse of dry crags and sharp ridges situated towards the westernmost horizon, a place where sun and largely devoid of even what sparse amenities others might have enjoyed in their high stone cities behind their pretty walls or in the forests girded by towering pines and fluted _khul_ shoots.

It was there among tents of woven cloth and hide, in the company of warriors, that he had come to budding manhood.

Roaming endlessly along cycles of seasonal migration that had guided his people since days before even the Warhawk had taken flight, deviating only to avoid the corruption cast by things better left alone. Learning the art of saddle and blade in pitched conflict with life, waged often with other disparate wanderers or those who's souls had been defaced. Struggling over what little fertile land and grazing fauna as could be claimed by tribal prerogative bolstered by might of arms.

Such was the way of Chogoris, the way the Great Khan had left for his people upon his ascension to the Heavens...

Upon the great plains at distance from a mile long stretch of arable seeding ground, the _Altak,_ had he rode forth to meet his enemies of the day. The Modai of the Easternmost Steppes, good well-bred warriors, skilled riders with rangy beasts gnarled by life in the steep hills. A battle worthy of song, blessed by auspicious omens none but the Shamans could have predicted, yet they had been told to hold their peace in silence.

Nothing to spoil the excitement of the morning which followed the gathering of war makers. Built amidst the ash winds where all warriors gathered in their dozens, Talskar and Modai, stood upon restless mounts. Each having acknowledged an outside witness to such bitter contest, a soul universally honoured and feared above all else.

A lone warrior of giant's proportions perched atop a ridge in imitation of the questing hawk seeking, golden orbs sweeping wide across the fields to fall upon each awed tribesman in turn from a scarred visage carved by years uncountable. This warrior spirit of Jagathai himself in service to the Emperor on his Golden Throne shining in the stars, having descended from the mountain heavens of Quan Zhou garbed in the ashen white of death and the arterial crimson of blood, the symbol of the storm writ across his shoulders and in his gaze to bless this occasion.

This _Zaydin Arga..._Stormseer, Fateweaver, Judge of Warriors had come for courage born in blood...

There were no overt prostration in the face of such a blessing, no lengthy diatribes or declarations of merit as one might see in the palaces of the Great Fortress cities. Such were simply things not done upon the _Altak, _only respectful nods and simple salutes in those final minutes of peace before all changed and lives were swept away in the tidal rush of savage exhilaration of the moment.

A moment begun by the crash of godly metals upon stone, a bell toll sounding as a crack of thunder across the plains soon lost in the clamor of hooves and the throaty calls of war cries and battle song.

That day Nergui had shown himself a warrior worthy of the Great Khan, slaying all that had stood against him in the manner of his ancestors.

First with _khul _shoot spear punching through the fine bell-strewn leathers of the Modai Outriders and tearing free streamers of crimson meat to whet their beast's flanks, mad cackling laughter on his lips as his own mount screamed and bucked beneath him faster and faster. So fast he'd lost his weapon in that sixth tribesman standing aground over one of his fallen brother warriors. Vengeance for the fallen claimed by swift thrust through the heart, though the strike was hasty. Spear tip, lodging deep in meat and gristle and jarring loose from unsteady grasp.

A lesser rider might have been thrown from saddle by such unexpected resistance and pain from twisted fingers, but not Nergui. Balance bred from a life astride such steeds seeing him riding true through the injury, fire burning in his eyes as good hand found the hilt of the aged talwar hanging at his belt. A simple gift from the Leaders of his Tribe, a symbol expounding both skill and esteem well-shown.

Nergui, always the swiftest in the hunt, the strongest in the wrestling pits besting even boys several turns his senior. One marked out as cleverest amongst his peers and today would prove as such to the _Ordu_ itself.

_Raken _trumpets blared as pitted steel, carefully tended hours before by his own hand, bit into neck and parried blade and spear tip both.

Dancing to their call as he was, weaving through the press of bodies and palls of choking dust that stung the eye and reduced the world, surrounded as he was by the cries of wounded men and steed. Faster, always faster into danger, mount foaming at the mouth while rider all but fell sidelong from the saddle to reach his next opponent, dodging death by scant breadths at a time. Some closer than even that, blood slicking a sun-bronzed face, pooling in hidebound leathers stiff with sweat.

Such was how a Son of Chogoris existed, riding always along that thinnest of lines between passion and recklessness. To feel the wind's caress across one's face to scatter the stinging dust to the four winds, to hear the pulsing tempo of a heart beating like the storm in time with one's own steed until all reason foretold that it should burst. To do any less, to avoid such experience, unthinkable.

It was said often amongst the tribes that a Chogorisian bereft of steed is only half a man, but with his beast he is as two men upon the field.

Truly, what more could be said of life? Brutal and wonderful, lived in the moment in the rattling rush of lightning flooding his veins.

A feeling that persisted only so long after battle's stark conclusion and the Mordai's swift harrying retreat, done more out of spiteful honour than any hope of regaining their center. The young rider of the Talskar easing back with a weary sigh against the still corpse of his once noble steed as the din of war turned to the petering cries of the aftermath. The beast he'd guided having fallen underneath him some minutes before, claimed at last by a spear that for but a moment's hesitation might have claimed him instead.

A randomness of fate, such was acceptable though he lamented as ever the loss of so loyal a beast and would see its remains tended as was proper by the chanting Shaman's working their way across the killing ground. Knives of mercy taken to those injured Warriors of both Tribes judged never to ride again, fated to live as cripples beggaring resources from those who might still live free, a life no true Chogorian would ever accept or inflict on any but the most reviled.

Their final moments spent in solemn prayer to the Heavens, commiserating with a cup of _kuzi_ for courage, or as often raucous laughter as befitted temperament.

Nergui knew how he would prefer his end. A moment's levity to confound the Yaksha Princes of the Netherworld, perhaps even earn the respect of the spirits beyond. With hope his loyal fallen steed might even be waiting for him then, he wondered idly as he traced aching fingers across the horse's still flank. Fingers coming away warm and wet.

Eager for perhaps a moment's rest, a reprieve to the feasting that would surely come when the Throne's golden eye finally vanished along the horizon...only the illumination had since gone, as had the momentary peace in a moment he would remember always...the coming of the Emperor's Shaman, the _Zaydin Arga _and his hawk's stare echoing the legends of yesterday as told in the bone-rattler's shadowed tents.

"You sit the saddle well, Talskar. For a mortal."

A voice laden as oncoming clouds echoed from the mighty warrior's lips. A giant's delight effortlessly making itself audible even above the thunderous hum of the ornately worked suit of ivory mail he bore with a craftsman's grace. The war gear growling as if the heart of a storm beat within its artifice, the noise rattling the boy's teeth and popping his eardrums painfully.

Up close, the _Zaydin Arga _appeared even more magnificent, his armour given over not to the gaudiness of those city-bound soldiers that Nergui had witnessed from afar but the trappings of his craft. A face of worn leather hardened by years and battles he could never hope to imagine, hair drawn back and oiled in the manner of the Talskar...had this warrior of the Ordu once counted himself among his people? An ancestor, perhaps kin of Nergui himself in a past life?

The gall of such assumption, he should be bowing in blatant forgiveness for such impertinence even in thought, much as the others were in such close proximity to the presence of such a being. A representative of the _Ordu, _the ancient sons of the Great Khan who rode the Heavens, breaker of Empires...

He _should _bow, but found he could not. His limbs milk weak where before they had been strong and steady, his balance offset, his voice absent the proper honours and greetings...

"Maybe a touch wilder than many I've seen in recent times, almost as if your soul yearned to soar free of that tiny body. Like the outriders of honoured Jagathai himself." He reached down with speed only the spirits could follow, plucking Nergui upright to his feet by the front of his in all his leathers and lean muscle like a doting parent might an unruly child, gentle for all the overt power conveyed by the simple action. "The _Ordu _requires such fire in these turbulent times, reminders of the old ways."

"You speak?"

"I...yes my Lord...?" His bewilderment, strangled at the outset by a sudden lack of breath and subsequently succinctly lost in the laughter of a godling. A boisterous cackle that, for all it was to the battle's chosen Aspirant, might have shaken mountains free of their berths and brought down the heights of the sky itself...

"Tell me who you are, Son of the Warhawk's own, if somewhat long removed. I would know the one I have chosen...?"

* * *

**-III-**

He so desperately wanted nothing more than to answer the dream. To give voice, and yet everything was as so much nothingness in this fugue state between waking and sleep.

The clouds having fallen to ground, the truth of his thoughts obscured in a mire seeking to slow and impede at every turn. This Neophyte's consciousness stirring within in a rattling excess of tortured meat, only aware in the dimmest sense of movement about his ailing person. Combative doctrine drilled into the meat of a transhuman brain by the Chapter's Adepts and their lightning machines forcing aside the dream visions in a stark return to reality.

_This in turn brought the pain forth once more, as it must..._

Shades capered like chicklings about the corners of orbs that could pierce the blackest night and stare across the land with a hawk's perceptions, yet now bled freely in milky runnels. Sounds filtered from ears reshaped to detect intimately the beating of another's heart as keenly as his own, ringing with a bell's hollow tone. The spirits were conversing, posing questions.

Hands moving in rehearsed concert that spoke of ritual. Adjusting eclectic dials on whirring machines, measuring fluid intakes snaking their way into bulging veins, poking and prodding with knife and needle, always speaking in voices...

_...To him? To others? There were others, that he knew as his senses told him such. Others suffering as he was, heard in the cracking of bone, the shunt of pressurized hyodermics..._

And yet he could not speak in answer.

No words offered to half imagined queries, utilizing such poetic verse as his Chapter's traditions had instructed. Tongue thick in his throat, bloated by chemical reagents that burned thick and hot across a numbed palette mixed liberally with oxygen-enriched vitae. His own, he imagined with a choking grimace that felt too loose on his skull, cold with chill sweat. Other implanted gifts idly picking through the thick slurry of lingering clotting factors, adrenal hormones, and other evidence of the Emperor's genius...tampered as it was by another's meddling, offering...

_...Strength, he had been offered newfound strength. Strength to take to the riven stars in a hunt like none other before since halcyon days long past...a White Scar..._

His hearts pound faster in his breast, he hears them now, feels them racing as they had in days before...in battle, this he finds he remembers if only in flickering detail. A flash of lightning amidst the clouds, heralding the tempest yet to come. A tempest born in the chiming alerts of cogitators making themselves heard, the voices of those shades now tinged with something approaching panic.

Routine motions falling to the necessity of blood slick gloves and sterile masks concealing weary faces, and still the cacophony of the machines carried on to the maddening tempo pressing against his ribs...

_...in time with the bellowing trumpets he so exalted in, just audible over the pounding of hooves upon the_ _Altak, __the cries of the Talskar rallying at his back as sword rose and fell..._

The Prisoner upon the slab blinked painfully against those distant stars hanging above, rebelling against the confines which dared bind him, a Son of the Steppes. Weeping flesh mutilated beyond even a Space Marine's formidable endurance, distended by growth curtailed and bones rendered to calcified twigs, strained against cold plasteel that slowly but surely began to give way...as only it must. Hands moved swiftly to try and stop him, those Shades attempting to subdue their disobedient charge, and he fought by the grace of Jagathai he _fought!_

Spitting a hateful cough full in the face of one spirit sending it keening madly into the arms of its fellows, blood soaked hands pawing at a face seared of flesh down to the white of bone by caustic acids mixed thoroughly with divine vitae. Another felled by shrapnel as the manacle about his left arm tore free in a spray of metal, the questing limb already searching out the neck of another, the snap of vertebrae in the meat of his palm smothered wetly by the flesh of the creature's throat...

..._replaced by a passing dream of screaming Green-skinned horrors. His limbs no longer bared, but clad in ivory ceramite of Mark X plate the white of ashes, bordered by the blood he shared with his Brothers as they swept like a blade through their ranks on armoured steeds of steel and thunder. An idle fancy of a future yet to be, a fate yet to be earned set the the beating..._

...of twinned hearts overtaxed by this last burst of exertion, stretched too far beyond limit. The pain cresting a fever pitch as the struggling Neophyte felt something burst wet and hot within his armored rib cage, a leaden weight bearing him downward as heat gave way to biting cold of the cavern space...so cold, never even in the chill winters of the Empty Quarter had he felt as such. Falling backwards through a blanket of frigid nothingness, the star swept plains growing more distant with each passing moment, darkness creeping forth to claw at his senses...

_...raking at the surface of his battle plate with snapping teeth and lunging claw, tearing the trappings of dreams aside to reveal the worn leather jerkin beneath. The Yaksha and their Princelings baying their hatreds at a quarry speeding passed, no longer astride the roaring attack bike the Chapter had gifted him but a true steed of flesh and blood..._

...another tremor caused by ruptured meat bursting at the seams, audible to ears that no longer listened. Eyes that no longer saw blindly gazing up at the humming lumen bulbs arrayed about the ceiling, mesmerized with something only he could witness. Slackened flesh at the corners of a mouth twitching once...twice...finally contorting into what approximation of a smile remained left to it.

_...A horse dimly remembered in the days before, loyal, steadfast as he remembered. Its whinnying breaths declaring for all the joy of this reunion with its long awaited rider, weaving at the slightest touch to evade the grasping talons of their pursuers left in dust and shame. The young Talskar never looking back, there was no need to..._

...and in the faces of those he left behind, all he could do was...

* * *

**-IV-**

"What occurred here?" Ulagan sighs through clenched teeth, staring fitfully through the armourglass partition that proved all that separated the sparse observation theatre from the sterile caverns of the vast implantation suite below.

Eyes a vivid gold of those avian raptors that nested in the Fortress Monasteries' heights tracing the thin patina of ice barely gracing the surface. A byproduct of the _mortis_-response set into motion in efforts of preserving what could be salvaged of the regretful truth of what lay within. Tunic-clad menials in the colors of the Chapter darting too and fro across the confined space in unhurried tedium.

Ever mindful to give appropriate space to the demigods in their wake by dint of caution almost instinctive. Knowing full well the potential consequence of such beings even at rest, without the virtue of their blessed wargear.

One of whom stood with hair bound in the traditional style, oiled and drawn back in the manner of the steppes that he'd once called his own. Bedecked in the traditional flowing silk robes and trappings that marked him as 'Shaman', 'Weather Caller', 'Stormseer'. This plethora of titles to denote one simple fact of being, 'Psyker'. A staff topped with rattling avian skulls seeming to hum visibly in his quivering grasp, steaming with the animistic fury of roiling heavens. It's raw power contained by will and specially treated talismans strung about his broad frame.

His counterpart clean shaven and bare of face, garbed simply in the white gown of the Apothecary though for the moment covered in the crimson affectation of surgery attempted. Broad back bent forward in careful examination of softly glowing viewscreens pulsing thick with runic script and captured data screes. Hunched over as he was, gingerly prodding ivory keys designed to accommodate a far smaller state of being, should have made this example of the Second Generation Astartes seem almost comedic in nature. It did not. Rather the disparity only further emphasized the differences between the two, almost total but for the pale scar that bound them as brothers. A stark comparison to any that might have lingered long enough to stare of what the White Scars had once been, as opposed to the future their ranks must now welcome.

"What murdered him, _Emchi_?" Ulagan asks more specifically this time, drawing in a heavy breath and relaxing the grip upon his symbol of office. Slowing the rapid drumbeat of his hearts. Focused upon the necessary, the required...what he must know and what he must now report to his Brothers. "Was this our stumbling, or some fault of his own gone unseen?"

"A systemic dysfunction of the Magnificat, the 'Amplifier', making itself known during the Primaris Beta phase. Whether unseen mutation in the genetic materiel or simple rejection of the host, it's too early to say with any degree of certainty."

A caustic grunt of warning from behind him proved ample incentive to delve into further detail. Splayed fingers dancing across the console to rouse other cogitators to fervent life. Each displaying ample data in regards to the implantation regimen and further detailed service record of this particular aspirant...Nergui of the Talskar Tribe upon the _Altak_.

To think a lifetime's worth of experiences upon the Steppes, hurts sustained as Neophyte in wars against the Greenskin _Hain _and ravenous Tyranid, well-earned triumphs in the Chapter's name...that all of it could be so easily distilled into a few lines of genetic codification and backlog.

"The deceased's hearts were simply too diminutive to support scope of change. His vascular structure suffering atrophied development in comparison to the rapid pace of growth affecting his circulatory system and lateral musculature. Prompting a cascade failure which in the end overtaxed and ruptured both organs, resulting in terminal damage." Ulagan listens with rapt attention. A pict-rendering details the steps well enough, this stumbling upon the path, in appropriately clinical detatchment... "That the subject survived as long as he did is curiosity enough in itself.

"That subject had a name, Brother. He served the will of the Chapter, if only for a short while. Deserving of respect."

"Of course, my apologies."

Ulagan wishes to argue the point, but the reasoning behind the slip is all too understandable. Rates of recruitment needs be accelerated, some traditions and courtesies waylaid in the name of expediency, of speed. With the Great Rift burning its way across the Imperium, those remnants of the Yaksha's influence still rife upon the plains, and the mounting losses among the Brotherhoods from a dozen differing campaigns they could do little else to maintain the numbers necessary.

Still, it rankled...

"But by the Khan, he was strong at the end. Met his death as a true Son of Chogoris should." If not of the Warhawk, at least not in truth. Such a notion going unsaid if not unacknowledged, painful as it were. Still he had died strong, shattering one of the monocles binding him, seeking the freedom all true men craved... "Most cry out like wounded _Hain_ upon the slab, but this one, this Nergui...he laughed."

"Likely he was suffering from delusions, not uncommon during the process. The excess of oxygen suffusing his blood interacting negatively with administered sedatives to produce..."

Ulagan lets the _Emchi _speak, though he only half listens. The fleshweaver's explanation as cold and clinical as his craft required of him, this he could not fault just as much as his own calling influences his feelings now. His role being to find souls worthy of being offered the chance to rise above petty tribal squabbles and become something greater, though in turn must also accept the pain of every failure as his own.

More than this. A younger Brother has been lost, and such a thing must be mourned...and mourned properly. Such was their way, the way of ten-thousand years tradition.

_"Aya, _such is a waste."

"Nothing is wasted, _Zadyin Arga_." The Apothecary corrects in the heavy resonating timbre shared by he and all those kindred whom had descended alongside the Avenging Son.

These 'Primaris' new-bloods with freshly scarred faces, uttering their broken ancient _Khorcin_ dialect on untried tongues thick with Martian influence...some even bearing distinctly non-Chogorian genetic markers of Terra and other myriad worlds in their get. Their benefactor having delved far and wide across the length of the Imperium for suitable candidates, at least such was the case regarding the noble Khagan's lineage.

Such as it was in the days of the Great Crusade, in the age of Legions and progress...these words those of Guilliman himself. Even so...

"This offering of the risen Primarch is still fledgling, even to us who bore it with us from Mars the red. New to the whole of the Imperium, in truth. That we would falter along the way is inevitable in such a process, if regrettable."

"Regrettable, is that all that can be said?"

The Apothecary makes subtle indication with his chin towards the freshly made corpse upon the slab, thickly-muscled medicae Servitors already shuffling from shadowed alcoves to disengage what bindings still remained that had contained the young warrior unto death, fussing like bloated apes...these flesh abominations more 'gifts' courtesy of the Red Planet.

Their mechanically-driven motions not gone wholly unmarked by the handful of other youths still stirring meekly in their own chemically induced slumber. Flourishing bodies yet in the process of being prepped for those final post-operative stages of implantation.

For them the worst of the storm had passed, their path still being forged in vivid dreams he could just about sense taking shape upon the written tapestry of their minds...

"With this stumbling we will learn where and how we failed, and how not to do so again. Our methods will improve, as we must for the days ahead. Many others take well to the process and should recover, given time and good fortune. The Ordu is made stronger by such acts."

"Favorable tidings. And yet, such does does little to aid those we were too slow to save."

Ulagan feels his brows knitting in anguished dismay, witness to the sorrowful sight of the young aspirant's misshapen body being unceremoniously handled by cold unfeeling hands made steady by dint of bio-mechanical enhancement. Unwilling to stomach the sight of those swollen abominations going about their grisly work, he turned to depart the tiered deck. Feeling suddenly eager to return to meditations that might serve to cleanse his rampant emotions in the aftermath this fresh loss and so many others.

"Retrieve what you may, perform your tests, but deliver his ashes and that of the others to my care. I would have them spread upon the winds of the _Altak, _as is proper."

"Might that their spirits ride so free as they did in life, blinding the thirsting _Yaksha _Princelings at every turn."

The Stormseer rounds with no small amount of surprise to acknowledge his Primaris Brother's words, noting with them the bow of measured respect offered to an honoured senior. A touch more curt than tradition demanded, but it was indeed a start. Far more than he thought these unnatural scions of Mars capable of achieving in so short a span.

Some could still properly affect the guise of Warrior, their hearts beating fiercely at the chance to finally serve an Imperium many still failed to quite grasp. Having been taken as boys centuries if not millennia passed in a theft of potential that some among his brethren still struggled to forgive.

For all this however, too many had taken to spirit the teachings of their Genetor, as well as those of the Red Planet to whom he owed allegiance. A statistical machine outlook wholly at odds with those precepts of the _Ordu, _at least that of the storied Brotherhood Ulagan knew and defended with every breath since he'd been plucked from the plains.

"Such shall be done. Was there anything else required, or might I continue with preparations for the next stage?"

Frowning in an expression that strained the deep lines of an already scarred face, Ulagan pauses for a brief moment at the portal to consider the question. Catching a last glimpse unbidden glimpse of one who had dreamed to reach the stars. His once vibrant thoughts lost to cruel absent silence but for lingering impressions of final agonies.

Never to claim a newer truer name or wield a blade in service to the _Ordu _of Jagathai...Never to feel the rush of wind on his face or laughter fill his breast as he ventured across the stars...Just the cold of the Netherworld, and the screaming of ravenous _Yaksha._

"Might the boy have survived, _Emchi,_ had he undergone the more traditional methods of ascension?"

He breathes this admission of weakness softly, as though afraid that any greater vocalization might give life to the storm raging in his breast. A storm that subsides in the next instant, his shame at the question overlooked by this new Brother of the Apothecarion in a display of tact Ulagan can only appreciate in the solemn silence that follows.

Instead those hawk's eyes hard set as his mind picks out the mental tapestries of those Neophytes that still drew breath. Feeling if for but a moment their pain as though it was his flesh that bled and changed under the knives of a new order. His blood wetting the slabs in the pursuit of ascension, a potency even he lacked.

One day such a time might come to pass in reality, who but the Emperor could say for certain?

In the meanwhile, he only prayed these Marines '_Primaris_' and their reborn Master proved fit for the daunting task ahead. Worth the upheaval of ten millennia worth of tradition and the sacrifice of countless souls like that which had breathed their last in pain and impotence.

_"Every worthy thing is difficult."_ Such were the words of the Primarch. Such were the words used to push forward into the future as the Chapter always had.

For the Emperor, for the _Khagan, _for all Mankind...and for those that stumble on the plains, gone but not quite forgotten...

* * *

_**\- Log Terminated -**_

* * *

_**A/N: Hey all, just wanted to thank you for reading. Started this Project and other shorts as a way to practice writing in this setting, or more new forms of writing in general. This outline was written a few months back, had just finished a few White Scars novels with a new appreciation for the riders of Chogoris as well as ADB's Spears of the Emperor where we see a few examples of the early days of the Primaris Project. **_

_**Anyway hope it was at least somewhat enjoyable, and any constructive criticism, advice, or ideas for improvement are much appreciated. - Mojo **_


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